


Onyx

by FallingOnBrokenWings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Antichrist Sam, Boyking!Sam, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Mild Gore, Pining, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingOnBrokenWings/pseuds/FallingOnBrokenWings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Trials, Sam disappears for three months, only to emerge as a competing force against the angels with an army of demons. Dean tries to go make things right with Sam, but he realizes that he doesn't know his brother as well as he thought he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onyx

**Author's Note:**

> This a sort of drabble that came to me out of nowhere, as I'm such a bitter Sam!girl that I just really wanted someone to appreciate Sam and see his struggles, but I'm in love with the idea of a Sam that went darkside, and it turned out to be these long piece of whatever this is. I will hopefully update when I better plan out the plot but as of now it may just be some random, vaguely-connected thoughts about how much I FUCKING LOVE SAM WINCHESTER.
> 
> Kudos/Comments are well appreciated, as you guys may have a better idea of where this is going than I do, and I'm totally open to suggestions. :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Ever since Dean was caught on the palace grounds, he’s had an entourage of lower level demons following him, guiding him through the onyx corridors with unnaturally silent ease. Unfortunately, he doesn't have his weapons with him, otherwise all these lower level dust clouds would be nothing more than ash on the ground. Too bad dream walking wouldn't let you have dream knives. The demon to find him, the one walking with a rough claw wrapped around Dean’s shoulder now, had given him a little bit of beat down upon his discovery. There’s the acrid taste of blood along Dean’s teeth and a dull ache in his stomach where a middle-aged man’s knee had driven up into it with inhuman force.

 

 Honestly, Dean had expected Sam’s dream hide-away to be a little more rainbow, puppies, and blonde haired females. Little less intimidating demon tower of doom. But then again, what else should he have expected from someone who’s been drugged up on blood for months in order to stay off of Dean’s radar. Dream walking was a last resort, but apparently the bond between them is still strong enough that Cas could send Dean’s body as close as it could get to Sam’s, thus the army of demon guards.

 

Fun.

 

Dean’s still trying to memorize the complex winding hallways when all of the demons stop abruptly and the room around them erupts in flames. The room is large and ominous, with high disappearing ceilings. Sam’s always been a sucker for theatrics.

 

Speak of the devil, there's a tall intimidating mass hiding somewhere in front of Dean, just beyond the reach of the flames licking up the walls. His instincts tell him that it's Sam. Can feel the singing of his blood that's always been tuned to his brother, but then if this is Sam, their situation may have just gotten a little more complicated then he and Cas had planned for. However, a hunter’s instincts are about as good as facts when working with the unknown, and Dean’s been saved too many times to disregard it now.

 

Before Dean has a chance to take in any more of his surroundings, he’s being forced to his knees by a dense cloud of smoke pressing on his shoulders, until he can either kneel gracefully or have them buckle and harshly toss him to the ground. He chooses the one that maintains the most dignity, and slowly lowers himself to the floor.

 

As soon as his knees touch the floor, the smoke next to him starts convulsing. Seconds later the screaming starts. The demon cloud that had been pressuring Dean to kneel solidifies into a human meat suit, back arched at a completely _inhuman_ angle as its mouth opens wide towards the ceiling.

 

Dean can’t even think before he buries his ears in his cuffed hands, can already feel the phantom sense of blood leaking from them. What he can see through squinted eyes is flickering between an intangible black cloud and a middle aged business man, but both have a thick ring of silver steel around their necks and what can barely pass for hands are pawing at them futilely.

 

A minute could pass, or half and hour, honestly Dean can’t tell. All he can see are the tears streaming down the demon’s face, sizzling as they splash onto the ground like it's crying holy water, and wonders what unimaginable pain could torment a demonic soul more than it had suffered in Hell. To the point of this mindless screaming and pleas for mercy falling from an open mouth. Skin peels from its body, bubbles appearing under what remains, like the demon is burning from the inside out. Goosebumps break across Dean's skin, ghosts of punishments he remembers being on both ends of.

 

Finally, the burnt out husk of the demon falls to the floor with a sick squelch, eyes hollowed to charred mahogany and mouth hanging open limply. The body and Dean can’t be more than two feet away, and he’s never felt more repulsed by something dead or undead. There are harsh black marks on the body’s neck where whatever it had been trying to remove has burned through the skin, leaving the glistening spinal cord to shine out against the burnt skin. 

 

The room is dead quiet.

 

“That's a warning, don't touch him,” echoes from the shadows, and suddenly the corpse is being dragged across the ground by an unseen force, deeper into the darkness of the room. “Shame. He was a decent officer. I guess I’ll just have to find a replacement.” The voice sounds mildly put-out, but the sick sound of the body hitting a far corner of the room erases the idea of any sympathy the voice might have had for the demon.

 

And it's just a voice, it can't be Sam. Thinking of Sam doing something like this is going to make Dean sick. So it's just a voice.

 

But now that Dean can focus on something besides the convulsions of the demon, he can feel the power in the room, buzzing just below an audible level, but it vibrates through his veins like marching fire ants. 

 

It's unmistakably Sam.

 

The thought hits him like a tank. Sam did that. For one of the few times in Dean’s life, he’s genuinely afraid of his brother. That display of strength could have taken down an angel, and Sam doesn't even sound out of breath. Looking down at the floor, he thinks how that was one of the cruelest and most inhumane ways Dean’s ever seen anything be killed, outside of the torture chambers in Hell. And all the thing had done was hurt Dean. Drunk men in bars had gotten away with more.

 

Dean doesn't feel like joking about theatrics anymore. But he still needs to stick to plan. Operation: Get Little Brother Back.

 

“Sam this isn’t you. You’re better than this,” he pleads, because it's _not_ his Sam. His Sam used to carry moths out of the motel room, rather than kill them like Dad would say. Would take in strays from the streets and feed them with the brothers' already minimal food supplies. He needs this to be a prank or a practical joke. Dean can handle jokes. He's not sure he could handle what just happened. Actually, he's not sure anyone could.

 

Despite the emotion he feels behind them, Dean’s words bounce off the flooring and come back sounding harsh and empty to his ears. He’s bent over at the waist, old wounds that cause an ache in his knees as they grind into what must be the throne room floor. He hasn't had the strength to look up yet, instead trains his eyes on the ground, tracing old blood trails as they snake across the ground like veins. Everything else was immaculate when he was dragged in here, makes Dean wonder why this stain was left to decorate the smooth wood. He can see the shadowy shapes of demons as they all stand behind him, silently, as if showing tribute to their king. One almost lays his hand on Dean’s shoulder, probably warning him to do the same. It never does though, Sam's made sure of that. 

 

The laugh that echoes through the chamber is Sam’s but then it isn't. His little brother’s voice has never been this raw and powerful, like thunder rumbling the walls, carrying the after image of lightning in it’s wake. The remnants of a sudden violent outburst of sound.

 

Dean can’t differentiate between the trembling of the demon behind him and the way Sam’s laughter rolls across his body like something tangible. Something dark and thick, leaving the phantom feeling of ink on his skin where it peeks through his many layers of clothing. If he were a demon, Dean would be trembling too. But Sam knows all of Dean’s tells, and he can’t let Sam know he’s won yet, even if he has his own suspicions.

 

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Dean.” Sam rumbles when his laughter finally simmers down into low hum.

 

Dean can’t pin it down, exactly in what way Sam is different, but without a face to match the words, his mind creates the idea of an earthquake. The way it’s destruction is abiding and languid, breaking down skyscrapers from their roots with grating tremors felt long after the world crumbles, like the way a soldier can still hear gunfire when sitting at a dinner table. Or how a cancer survivor may still feel the burning of sunspots on their lungs. Hell was creative in their punishments.

 

Suddenly Dean can’t breathe. There’s not enough air in the room, Sam is taking it all, and Dean can’t _breathe_. Is this what it’s come to, Dean believing his brother to be a natural disaster, a cancer, a murderer?

 

Perhaps Sam doesn’t mean to be like this, similar to how tsunamis don’t mean to carry cities off into the sea. It's probably the blood addiction, if Dean could just get Sam out of here-

 

“Sam, you’ve gotta beat this, man,” Dean pants. There’s still no oxygen, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes. Or it could be the dried blood, pulsing now as it snakes its way towards Dean’s bound hands, as if animated by an unseen heart. “ You’re so strong, I know you can. We need you back.” The _**I** need you back_ goes unsaid, but this is Sam. They’ve always been more show than tell in their family.

 

“Oh do they now?” Sam chuckles. “ It’s funny how peoples’ perception of _need_ changes. They never needed me, Dean. They tolerated me due to the fact that you and I were a joint package. You buy one hell-hardened hunter, and you get a blood-sucking freak for free.”

 

“No, Sam-”

 

“Nah, It’s alright, I’m over it, “ Sam interrupts. “Water under the bridge.”

 

“That’s not true, please, Sam, that’s not you. Please, this isn’t you, I just want us to go home.” The whispered words rush out of Dean before he has even thought them through, pooling at the chains between his feet. He can’t even bring himself to care that it sounds less like he’s trying to convince Sam, and more like he’s trying to convince himself.

 

“Don’t you understand, Dean? This is me, I was never going to be anything better than this. I just had to get past my worship of you to see it.”

 

That one hurts. Dean thought that he’d always be ready for the day that Sam said he didn’t need him anymore.

 

He wasn’t.

 

Dean hears a small sigh and then the steady beat of bare feet as it gets louder and louder. It’s such a strange thing to be thinking, but Dean can’t wait to see Sam’s feet. There’s something inherently human about the imperfection of toes. The aggressive lines of bones as they jut from the ankle to create the delicate structure of someone’s foot.

 

When they finally come into sight, Dean can’t help but let out the breath he was holding because they're just so _Sam_  . There isn't anything about Sam that Dean wouldn't recognize, hairy feet included.

 

But then tan hands are reaching down into his line of vision, finger bending to support his chin, and lift slowly but steadily upward. Dean’s gaze rises with Sam’s hands, taking note of the well-fitted suit pants, completely lintless and actually reaching all the way down to his feet, creasing at the ends. The tucked crisp light blue dress shirt, collars folded at sharp angles, showing off a long slender neck, with immaculate clear buttons peaking out from under the warm brown suit jacket. The jacket only has one button holding it shut, forcing the material to strain across the broadness of Sam’s shoulders. No tie, but Dean’s not sure that Hell really has a great tie selection, even though he’s sure that Sam could get one if he wanted. He got a suit that fits, for God's sake.

 

Sam is gorgeous in a way that Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Long hair not greased with the strain of long car trips and shitty motel showers. Kid finally looks like he’s been getting some decent sleep, color faded from underneath his eyes. Light stubble that works to highlight the sharpness of his cheekbones, while making him still look surprisingly soft instead of sickeningly artificial in harsh diner fluorescents.

 

He looks like he did at Stanford.

 

Hazel eyes gaze back down at him. Dean expects them to flicker black, and is startled when instead they just crinkle to smile down on him without Sam moving his lips.

 

Dean wasn’t going to be weak, he promised himself as he was dragged in here. He wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ , but-

 

“ _Sammy_?”

 

Sam ignores Dean’s whispered plea, instead smiles and continues on as if he can’t hear the pounding of his brother’s heartbeat, or feel its rhythm as it bruises against Sam’s fingers still pressed under Dean’s chin.

 

"I loved you. You were so eager for praise, to find yourself deserving of something, how could I not give it to you? Everything you ever did, you did for me.” Sam smiles, but his lip curls at the top, unfamiliar. “ You didn’t need to remind me, Dean, I knew. You knew what was best for me, made my choices for me, because I was just. So. _Stupid_.”

 

Somewhere in Sam’s rant, his eyes had turn hard, cold, so much so that Dean would have almost preferred they go black. He’s never seen those eyes turned on him, so frigid that Dean for a moment questions if Lucifer has found his way back into Sam.

 

“And what’s worse, is that for most of my sorry, pitiful life, I believed you loved me too.”

 

There’s a small hitching sound, sharp gasps of air, and Dean’s confused until he realizes that it’s coming from him. The way his breath is catching in his lungs to prevent him from crying.

 

Sam makes a grunt of disgust, flicking Dean’s chin as he pulls his hand back to his side. “Pathetic,” he spits. “You think this is bad? I have millennia of torture on my fingertips. I’ve been subject to some of the greatest suffering known to mankind, and I lived through it for _you_ , Dean.”

 

The pain in Dean’s chest is the only thing keeping him grounded, the way his lungs feel like rusty metal and how the slight impact on his chin feels like Sam just threw a punch. He can’t even open his mouth so speak, knowing his silence is the only thing keeping his tears in.

 

And God, it _hurts_. Thinking about Sam moving around the bunker, how Dean always forgets that this is the man who survived the cage. Who held out for months against something that brought an angel to madness in seconds. It's just that Sam's just so quiet, like he's already gone ghost and just needed a home to haunt. Dean forgets that Sam knows pain like this, this ravaging heat building in his chest because _fuck_ Sam's right. Sam's not happy, because he's been spending his whole life chasing after Dean.

 

“Do you really think I gave a fuck about all those people who would have died if I hadn’t jumped? To let you, and every other person we ever saved, continue to live their miserable, repetitive lives. They don’t even know we exist, Dean!" Sam yells.

 

Somewhere in the last few words, a tear had made a hot trek down Dean's face. He can feel the droplet hang off of his chin for a moment, before crashing onto his thigh in a splash of heat. And all he can think about is how weak he's being in front of Sam. How is he supposed to be a big brother like this? 

 

Sam sighs, staring expectantly at Dean. “Yeah, the whole guilt thing's a bitch, I would know. I saved the world for you. Now, I can condemn it.” Sam heaves a lung-full of air and storms back to a dark chair at the head of the room, now illuminated by fire atop some pillars on either side of it. Something pokes and prods at Dean until he pushes himself up from his knees, shame forcing his hands to hang loose in front of his legs and shoulders to feel heavier than usual. Unceremoniously, he’s dragged to the steps leading up to the throne chair by Sam's crazy telepathic powers and left standing in front of his brother. Sam just stares at him.

 

Dean has to swallow a few times before he’s sure his words won’t come out cracked. He still has a plan to follow. “Hey listen, Sam. It doesn’t matter what you did to get yourself into this, I’m gonna help you.” Dean says.

 

“Oh, you mean like how I couldn’t help you when you were going to Hell?” Sam sneers. He’s seated in the lavish chair, legs sprawled out but hands gripping the armrest so tightly that his knuckles glow white in the dim lighting.

 

“No, Sammy-”

 

“Don’t!” Sam bellows. Scuffling erupts behind Dean, demon’s probably being knocked back by the force of their King’s words. “Don’t talk to me like that, like I was ever more than your responsibility. After all, you were the one who broke me. I’ve spent eternity down here, because of you.”

 

Suddenly, brighter fire whooshes into life atop the tall wrought-iron pillars framing the throne. The warm light catches on something metallic dangling from the right arm of Sam’s chair, but it can’t be because, fuck, Dean _threw that away_.

 

“Funny how karma works, isn’t it, Dean?” Sam teases, picking up the black cords and swinging it gently from his fingertips. “You were always my most adoring critic. So willing to sacrifice yourself for me, to protect me at the cost of your own freedom. But nothing I did could ever match what you gave.” He sends Dean such a saccharine sweet smile that, for a moment, Dean wants to smile back.” Oh no, you gave your innocence, your happiness, your very soul for me. What have I ever possessed that could match your generosity?”

 

Sam gestures towards Dean, letting the golden head fly tantalizing close before swinging back to Sam’s waiting hand.

 

“A trinket. No wonder you tossed it away. “ Long, slender fingers twirl the charm around and around in lazy circles until Sam seems bored with it. He then turns to place it on one of the obsidian spires that jut from the top of the chair. The motion makes Dean’s eyes catch on the wall behind Sam, and he spots what seems like writing scrawled in dark paint.There’s only a few words he can make out, but already it’s making his heart ache in his chest.

 

**Monster.**

**Freak.**

**I would wanna hunt you.**

Because those are words Dean knows. Has felt the ash as they rolled off his tongue, felt them push out past the tightness of his lungs. Those are his words written on the wall, and now that he knows it, more phrases become legible in the dancing firelight. Some words he meant in the heat of a moment, and now vehemently regret them. Some he has no recollection of ever saying.

 

Maybe someone else's words made it up here as well, but who else might have said ' **I’m done trying to save you** '?

 

However, most of the phrases up there he vaguely remembers, some in jest, some not. He didn’t realize how much they meant to Sam until he sees them written in permanence on this wall of what? Failures? Are all of these words supposed to make Sam want to change, or remind him of who he is now?

 

**i want you to lose my number, boy**

 

**you're nothing to me**

 

He’s still looking at the wall in horror when Sam turns back around and glances at him.

 

“Oh, yeah, you like?” He sweeps an arm around and up, gesturing to where more words are scrambled higher up, the dark letters fading at the firelight strains to reach it. “ I never really did get to decorate my dorm room, but this is much better than some random pictures and a poster.”

 

Despite the drawl of his tone, Dean can feel the tension in the air, the way Sam’s eyes catch on certain phrases and almost nod in agreement.

 

Shame makes hairs raise across his skin, because Dean did this to Sam. His little brother is like this, because of _him_. Sam made this place in his mind as a refuge, Cas said, as a place to retreat to in times of despair. Sam's crazy powers turned this dream fort tangible, but Dean could have never imagined that all of these years, this is the place where Sam felt safest. Amongst his alleged failures. 

 

Sam lazily smiles at him, resettling back into the chair. “I made it when I was 8, I think. When I first realized you could lie to me.”

 

“What-?” Dean starts, because Sammy at 8 was nothing like the man seated in front of him, he can’t even fathom them in the same room. The little brother that always wanted to stop by a library when they reached a new town. Or wake up early on weekdays to help Dean get ready for school.

 

And then he remembers. It was Sam’s eighth birthday and they were staying in an cheap rental house in Nebraska and Dad wasn’t home because he was out fighting monsters, and Dean had decided it was finally time to tell his little brother what was out there.

 

Sam had cried and cried, storming off in a little ball of hormones to stay in his room for the next two days. To Dean it had just been a temper tantrum that had been a few years in the making. Apparently to Sam, it was a reveal of Dean’s first deceit.

 

But Sam had been so young. He didn’t need to know about what was out there.

 

“I just wanted you to have a childhood. To not be worrying about whether Dad would come back alive or not.” He defends. They sound weak to even his own ears, like fading words yelled after a Greyhound bus: too little and too late. 

 

“But you gave yours up. Because Dad told you to. Look at what I did to you Dean," Sam gestures towards Dean, "all those scars are my fault, that tattoo, your years in Hell. You should hate me.”

 

The words are instinct. “ I don’t hate you, Sam. Please, just. Just come back.”

 

“You made me like this!” Sam yells, and Dean feels the corners in the room grow darker under the force of Sam’s rage. “I just wanted to grow up and make you proud but I couldn’t get out from under your shadow. All I needed to do was leave but everything, anything you could think to keep me around was fair game. Jess. Dad. Hunting. So congratu-fucking-lations, Dean! You did it!" Sam throws his arms wide, gesturing to the room at large. "I couldn’t live with you and now I cant live without you.”

 

“Sam, no-” Because that was never what this was about. Dean just wants his brother back. He never meant to hurt Sam like this.

 

“You should have let me finish the Trials. I was tired, Dean. So damn tired. Tired of having my body taken from me, having my soul raked over the freezing fires of Hell, and tired of denying my destiny only to have it blow up in my face. I don't even know if I'm angrier at you, or at me." Sam settles deeper into the chair. "I guess I'm finally where I belong.”

 

Dean doesn’t know what inspires him, doesn’t even realize until it’s too late that somehow he’s moved right up in front of Sam. He can feel the tear rolling down his cheek, sees himself reflected in his brother's eyes and Sam is wrong _wrong **wrong**_.

 

“No, Sammy, you belong with me.” And he kisses him.

 

It’s just a chaste brush of lips, something Dean used to dream about when he was 19 and his little brother was just so damn _beautiful,_ all long legs and curious eyes. It’s dry and Sam’s scruff is a sharp contrast between the softness of his lips, and Dean could do this forever.

 

Except for how Sam is pushing him back with a steady hand on his shoulder. Dean realizes that Sam had never been kissing him back. Looking at Sam, Dean doesn’t think he can ever remember Sam looking so angry.

 

Oh. Oh _shit_.

 

“Sam, wait-” Dean goes to apologize, beg, cry. He doesn’t know what he is going to do but he just wants his Sammy back.

 

“Get him out of here.” Sam whispers, words a cold death rattle in his throat. They can only be a few inches apart, Dean can feel the fever of Sam's breath as it puffs out against his moist lips.

 

Nothing in the room moves.

 

“ _I said get him out_!” Sam bellows.

 

Fire from the braziers atop the throne leap from their hearths and spiral through the air, coming to rest atop Sam’s head like a crown. Dean knows what Hell fire is, and how scorching it’s heat. He can feel it from where Sam pushed him away, burning it's way across Dean’s skin. His lips seem warm too, but that may be just from the kiss.

 

Suddenly, he’s engulfed in demon smoke. A swirling tornado that fills his nose, ears, and mouth. It’s whisking him through the air, away from Sam’s blazing heat, and the dried blood on the throne room floor. And the last thought Dean has before he blacks out is that he can’t taste Sam’s lips anymore. Only sulfur.

 

***

 

Dean’s been absently scratching sigils into his cell floor when Sam storms into the room, sans demon entourage.

 

“How did you figure it out?” He demands.

 

“Figure what out?” Dean asks, still tracing a fingernail over the complex Norse rune for protection. He's tired and wants to go home, but not without Sam. Never without Sam. 

 

Sam rolls his eyes and gives such a signature bitch face that Dean innately wants to smile, probably would if it weren’t for the murderous look Sam’s giving him and the crushing weight in his throat, but instead looks down to the floor.

 

“That I’m in love with you.”

 

Dean’s hand stutters to a stop on the floor, eyes darting up in disbelief.

 

“What?” He asks, eloquently.

 

“Don’t play stupid, Dean, because I know you’re not. You wouldn’t have kissed me if you hadn’t known. So spill.”

 

Dean’s so confused he doesn’t know what to say. Dean kissed his brother because _he’s_ in love with Sam, not the other way around.

 

He settles for, “What?”

 

Sam sighs and settles his hands on his hips in a way that reminds Dean of when little six year old Sammy wanted to know why there was no more Lucky Charms. “Just wanna know what gave it away. I’m curious.”

 

“Nothing, Sam! I did it because I wanted to.”

 

“Bullshit.” The words are harsh, but Dean can see the insecurity underneath it. Then it hits him.

 

Sam’s _in love_ with him. And Dean just kissed him, while asking Sam to come back home with him. It's a little insulting, but apparently Sam wouldn’t put it past Dean to whore himself out to his Antichrist brother just to get him back topside.

 

“No, Sammy, I want you. I have wanted you.”

 

“Shut up. I came back on the road for you. I started hunting again, I threw away my life for you and you _never_ wanted this. What could possibly make me think that being the Antichrist changed that?” Sam’s glaring at Dean, scanning the sigils he’s drawn with detached anger.

 

“C’mon Sammy, you know I don’t do chick flick moments. There was never a good time to start this. With Dad, and then Hell, and the demon blood.” They’re weak arguments, when the real reason is because Dean’s a fucking coward. He’d rather have lived as brothers, than broken them apart by wanting more than he deserves.

 

“Dean, you just kissed me in front of the entire army commandment of Hell. It doesn’t get more ‘chick flick’ than that. Also, I’ve been off the demon blood for almost 5 years now. That's a long ass time to start something.”

 

“Really?” Dean asks incredulously. ”Then how are you the whole-” He waves his hand through the air, lost for words to sum up _strong enough to cause an apocalypse and rule Hell with your army of demons_. Now he feels kind of bad for assuming that Sam had gone back on the blood behind his back in order to pull off avoiding Dean.

 

Also, that means Sam’s ability to hide from his brother is much better than Dean anticipated. And the demon in the the throne room- 

 

Sam shrugs. “Natural talent, I guess. That still doesn’t explain the kiss.”

 

Dean smiles sheepishly. There’s really not a good excuse for that other than being in love with his brother since Sam hit puberty. “Guess I just wanted to shake things up.”

 

Sam huffs and paces back and forth at the front of Dean’s cell, hands messing up his perfect hair.“You can’t give me this and just expect me to come crawling back to you. It doesn’t work like that anymore. It doesn’t. You can go back and just tell everyone that you just couldn’t save me this time. Garth, Cas, Crowley, anyone who knew who I was, I honestly don’t care. Just tell them that I’m never coming back. I can’t do this with you around.”

 

He’s more talking to himself than Dean, and it’s pissing Dean off that Sam can just turn his back on him like that. They’re family. Through everything, they’ve always been brothers. And now there’s this thing between them, something Dean had lost hope in years ago. And Sam’s saying no because it’s _wrong_?

 

“Sam, when are you going to stop running away from everything?” Dean erupts, slamming his cuffed hands against his thighs.

 

Sam spins and pins Dean with burning hazel eyes. “When it stops being the right thing to do!”

 

“We don’t do the right thing!” Dean yells. “We never have! We started the damn apocalypse, for fuck’s sake!” His lungs are heaving, and the chain attached to the manacles has swept through some of his painstakingly intricate sigils. The one for love and family is safe just next to his left knee. Ironic. He sighs and starts again. “ We may not always do the right thing, but we never give up on each other, Sam.”

 

Sam sighs and seems to deflate against the wall. “No, Dean, _you_ don’t give up.”

 

Seriously, Dean’s getting sick and tired of Sam’s self-depreciative bullshit. Shouldn’t he have a bit more confidence if he’s going to be All-Powerful Supreme Ruler of Hell?

 

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means I didn’t do so well with you gone.”

 

If Sam’s talking about when Dean went to Hell, then yeah, Dean gets that Sam had a few problems. Demon blood being the big red flag that sticks out. But the way Sam’s staring at his feet like they’re the most interesting thing in the world has Dean thinking that Sam’s been hiding something from him.

 

Dean _mmmhmm_ s non-committally, in hopes of prompting Sam to continue.

 

He doesn’t have to wait long.

 

“It just seemed so easy. You were supposed to be in Heaven. All of my research, it said that you were in Heaven, so I could finally just… move on, ya know, accept my fate?” A mirthless laugh slips from Sam’s lips, and seems to die when it touches the air. He shadows twist and intertwine like hands, an anxious habit. “Lucifer said he had a spot reserved just for me. Just me and a car, seemed like a good way to go. I had it all planned out.  More painful than a gun, but definitely with a better success rate than a hunting knife. It hadn’t worked the first time, but it had taken the longest to recover from when I’d been housing Lucifer. And then I’m so fucking stupid, I go and hit a _dog_. I shouldn’t even be here.” He says the words like he can barely stand them coming out of his own mouth. Stammering his way through them so quickly Dean can only tell what’s being said because this is Sam we’re talking about.

 

But also, _Sam_.

 

He doesn’t want to believe it, does not want to look at his brother and imagine a mangled corpse, like the one in the throne room, but Sam sounds dead serious and way too nonchalant about almost driving himself over a cliff. Twice.

 

And much too fucking dissapointed about failing.  

 

Trying to think back on the last time he saw Sam smile, Dean’s drawing a blank. Or the last time he willingly asked for food without anyone prompting. Even tries to imagine when Sam’s forearms were last bare in the bunker. And it’s killing him that he can’t, he just can’t. There’s too many Sam’s in his mind and this one doesn’t fit into any of those models. Almost like Dean has been ignoring Sam’s suffering for months, not bothering to catalogue these new changes in his brother.

 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice breaks Dean’s stupor when he realizes he's been quiet too long.

 

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean says on instinct, because Sam just admitted to attempted suicide, what else is he supposed to say? However, he immediately regrets it with the way that his brother flinches back into the wall. Sam’s suit is probably going to get dirty. But Dean can’t bring himself to give a damn; he just wants these cuffs off so that he can either punch Sam in the face or kiss him senseless, he hasn’t decided which one yet.

 

Sam runs shaky fingers through his hair, a familiar nervous tic he’s had since he was a kid. “Yeah, you’re right, pretty dumb of me, huh? Should have just used the gun.” Sam visibly brings himself back under control, shadows pooling at his feet like ink drops. Once his hands stop shaking, he brings his eyes up to meet Dean’s, still that bright swirling lake of colors that take his breath away, make it so that Dean can’t say a word.

 

“Goodbye, Dean. I’ll have someone come down in a moment and escort you out. Please don’t come back.”

 

So Sam walks out of Dean’s holding cell, shoulders strong and broad with no tenseness to his stride, door slamming behind him.

 

And Dean still can’t remember what his brother’s mouth tastes like, so he bites deep into his lip and reminds himself that their blood is one and the same.

 

 


End file.
